The Singing (32 page)

"I
heard no threat," said the Bard. "And if you disobey me, you will know what threat is. Dismount."

The Bard lifted his hand, intending perhaps to freeze them with a charm, but Saliman moved first. A blast of magery erupted from Saliman's outstretched hands and knocked the Bard to the ground. Usha reared in fright, and Hekibel gasped, staring at the Bard, who lay white and unmoving on the ground next to Fenek's corpse. The two soldiers, taken completely off guard, stood with their mouths open. Instantly another blast of magery shattered the gate to splinters, and Saliman, his disguise fully broken by the force of his own magery, was already through it on Minna at full gallop.

Hem, the only person who wasn't taken wholly by surprise, spurred Usha on. The terrified horse bolted after Minna, completely out of control, as Hem threw his arms around Hekibel's waist and Hekibel desperately clutched the reins, trying to stay on. Hem looked back over his shoulder and glimpsed the two soldiers hurriedly mounting horses and shouting, and more soldiers running up from somewhere. Then he concentrated on not falling off Usha, praying that she wouldn't fall lame again, not now.

He snatched another look: the two soldiers were in pursuit, their mounts at full gallop down the road. They had a good lead, but Hem realized that it was inconceivable that Usha and Minna, already tired after a day's hard riding, would be able to outpace fresh horses. Usha was no longer bolting blindly, and Hekibel now had some control. She steered her off the road after Saliman, who was riding over an unfenced field toward a dark wooded hill. Usha was blowing hard, and Hem wasn't sure how much longer they could keep going. He glanced back again: the soldiers were drawing close, and he thought at least one of them had a bow. Belatedly he remembered that he ought to make a shield, and somehow managed to cast the charm, even at their bruising pace.

Then at last they were in the shelter of the trees, but now their ride became even more terrifying. Hem could hardly bear to look as the horses plunged through dead bracken that brushed against their bellies, barely missing the trees. There was no way of seeing the ground: if the horses stepped in a hole or stumbled over a tree root, they could break their legs, which would spell disaster. A branch almost swept Hem off Usha's back, giving him a stinging lash across his cheek, and Hekibel hissed at him to keep low. Saliman was turning Minna sharply, constantly changing direction, and Hekibel rode in his wake, concentrating on following his movements. The noise of the horses crashing through the undergrowth meant that Hem could hear nothing of their pursuers, but he thought that they surely couldn't be far behind. He had by now completely lost his sense of direction.

They came across a small stream and Saliman rode down its sharp banks and urged Minna into the water. Usha snorted and followed her. Now they slowed down, trotting slowly upstream, the shallow water frothing around the horses' fetlocks. The rushing of the water covered any noise they made, and Hem began to relax a little. They had gone some distance before Saliman took Minna up the opposite bank. Here there was a close-knit grove of ancient, wide-boled oaks, growing so close together that their branches entwined and swept down low to the ground. They were newly in leaf, the fresh green making a delicate, close-meshed tent. Here they dismounted and led the horses into the shade.

The horses had cooled down in the slow trot up the stream, and were no longer winded; but their coats were streaked white with sweat and their cheeks flecked with foam. They had ridden hard: looking at them now, Hem thought it was a miracle that they had not broken down.

It suddenly seemed very quiet. The tiny noises of the wood—the whispering of leaves, the scurrying of a small animal—gradually rose about them and Hem was sharply aware of the smell of the damp earth, rich with rotting leaves, beneath his feet. With a start, he realized that he had no idea where Irc was, and sent out an urgent summoning. To his unbounded relief, Irc answered at once.

Where are you?
said Irc plaintively.
I'm looking and looking...

We're under the trees,
said Hem. We
had some trouble.

Irc gave the crow's equivalent of a contemptuous snort.
And you told
me
to stay out of trouble,
he said.

We
might still be in trouble. Can you see any horsemen where you are?

I saw a man in the woods a little while ago. He is not where you are. I saw no others. I will fly and look and then I will find you.

Hem sent out his hearing. There were hoofbeats, a horse trotting, maybe two, a little distance away.

"I think, for the moment, that we have thrown them off our trail," said Saliman, after a long silence. "For the moment. But I have no idea where we are."

Hekibel had been leaning against Usha, stroking her neck. At this, she looked up. "Dear faithful beasts, these two," she said. "They were not made to run like that."

"No," said Saliman. "And yet they ran like the Ernani's racing steeds."

"I thought we were done for." Hekibel shuddered. "Those horrible, horrible men .. . and oh, poor Fenek ..." She laid her face against Usha's damp withers, and Hem knew that she didn't want him or Saliman to see her cry. "It's true, you know, that he's been my dog for years, since I was a girl," she said in a muffled voice. "He didn't deserve that. He was just trying to protect me."

"He was a good dog," said Hem awkwardly. He was thinking of how he would feel if anything like that happened to Irc.

"It was just so—sudden." She looked up, wiping her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said. "He's only a dog, I know, but I loved him.

Now everyone I traveled with is dead. Except Usha and Minna."

There was a bleak silence.

"How did he kill him like that?" asked Hekibel. "Was that man a Hull?"

"He was a Bard," said Saliman, in a hard voice. "Though I think such as he do not deserve the title. In any case, he is a Bard no longer."

"Did you kill him?" asked Hem. "I thought you just..."

"He is dead, yes," said Saliman. "I dealt him the justice he was about to deal us. If I were a better Bard, I should not have done it. But I am not a better Bard." There was a dangerous glitter in Saliman's eyes, which made Hem drop the subject. Hem had seldom seen this side of him, and it frightened him. Saliman's anger was slow, but when it awakened, it was merciless.

"Well, what should we do now?" asked Hem.

"To be honest, Hem, I am not sure I can go any farther for a while. I am not as recovered from my illness as I would like, and that magery drained me, not to mention that wild cross-country gallop. I would give much to know where those soldiers are. They will be tracking us, for certain."

"Irc said he would look for them," said Hem.

"Did he, now?" Saliman smiled, his teeth flashing white in the gloom under the trees, and the old Saliman was back again. "I was wondering what had happened to our feathered friend. I would never say this to Irc, because he would not let me forget it, but he is the best scout I have ever had."

Irc reappeared shortly afterward as they were making a rough camp. Angling in beneath the oaks and perching himself on a branch, he watched Hem brushing the dried sweat out of Usha's coat and reported that he had tracked the horseman, who was leaving the woods.

Only one?
asked Hem.

I saw no other,
answered Irc.
And I'm hungry.
He cocked his head, fixing Hem with his eye.
Where's the dog? Did he run away?

He was killed by a soldier,
said Hem shortly. He feared that Irc might say something rude, since he had always squabbled with Fenek, but instead Irc went very quiet.

J
am sad,
said the crow at last.
He was good, for a dog.

"Only one horseman?" repeated Saliman later, as they shared some food. They had wrapped themselves in blankets as well as cloaks, as it was cold in the shade and they dared not light a fire.

"Yes," said Hem. "He said he saw no other."

"That troubles me," said Saliman. "They will not give up the hunt for us lightly. And I am tired enough to sleep a dozen nights." He sighed. "For the moment, we are safest here. Tomorrow, I think, we should try to get out of Desor. Do you still feel the path, Hem?"

Hem nodded. "At least we're on the right side of the Fesse now," he said. "And Irc told me something else too. The Black Army is past the floodplains and in the Desor Fesse. We would definitely have run into them if we had gone back along the road. Irc said they are as many as ants in an anthill." Hem swallowed. "And he said they left a trail of corpses behind them."

"Who would they be fighting, in the mud?" asked Hekibel, looking up, her eyes large.

"I think the Black Army was not fighting," said Saliman. His voice was very low. "I expect that those corpses are their own. It must have been a cruel march indeed." He was silent for a long time. "Most of those soldiers are slaves," he said. "Sharma's war is not their choice: they had none. I pity them as I do not pity that Bard."

* * *

Hem took the first watch. He sat on his blanket to soften the hard ground, and listened to the secret night noises of the forest, the gentle breathing of his companions, the stirring of the horses as they shifted in their sleep. Before him was a blackness of trees: at first he could see nothing, but his eyes gradually adjusted, and the darkness shifted into subtle shades of light and dark and movement. It was a still night, filled with a deep quiet: the trees barely rustled. The sky was clear again, and the stars shone white in a black, moonless sky

He was very tired, and before the moon rose he caught himself dropping off to sleep. Angry with himself, he slapped his arms and forced open his eyelids, stubbornly staring out into the night with burning eyes. Gradually the sky lightened as a crescent moon rose, small and high and bright as burnished silver.

Sleep kept sweeping through his body like an irresistible wave. He rubbed his eyes and pinched himself. He couldn't be this tired. He had often kept watch after long and exhausting days, and his body was used to it. It wasn't as if he felt safe; even though he and Saliman had, with a little difficulty, made both a glimveil and a shield to conceal their presence and any trace of magery, his nerves thrummed with tension. Yet his eyelids were as heavy as stone, and his eyeballs felt as if they had been rolled in hot sand.

It surely wouldn't hurt to shut his eyes, just for a little while, to ease them—he struggled against the voice that whispered in his head—it can't do any harm, it would be bliss, just to shut my eyes, just for a moment...

Hem picked up his water bottle and tipped its contents over his head. The water was freezing, and he gasped with the shock of it, but it woke him up. He shook his wet hair like a dog. Some sense prickled him with sudden awareness, and he looked around alertly, like a deer that had scented a hunter.

He could see nothing and hear nothing, but someone was close. Very close. He couldn't tell how he knew: there was no smell of magery or sorcery, and the ground beneath the trees was still and silent. But some deep awareness told Hem that something was creeping closer and closer to the trees where they were hiding.

A vivid memory rose in his mind of the agonizing games he had played in Nal-Ak-Burat, when Hared had been training him and Zelika for their spying mission near Den Raven. Hared had made them stand in a room that was absolutely dark, and attempt to catch each other. In those games, Hem had thought his heartbeat was as loud as a hammer, and his blood sounded like a river rushing through the darkness. Now it was the same. He couldn't hear the night noises of the wood anymore, nor the hooting of owls, nor the distant bubble of the stream. All he could hear was his own blood pulsing in his ears.

He sat absolutely still, in an agony of listening, and as he did, he felt the desire for sleep swarming again through his body, like the murmur of hives in summer, like the lapping waves on a lake golden with the light of evening. Now the voice, soft and dark as sun-warmed honey, was whispering of the dim shades that curled in the eaves of the palaces of sleep and kissed the slumberer with their gentle blessings.

Hem's eyelids grew heavier again, and he began to nod; but his will kicked him into wakefulness again.
It is a spell,
said another voice inside him, a stubborn voice that he knew was his own.
It's a spell, and someone is making it. Someone who knows you're here.

As soon as he understood this, the desire for sleep left him. The charm would no longer work on him, although Hem still heard its seductive voice whispering in his ear. This was not sorcery. This was the magery of Bards. A Bard of Desor—a Bard like the one Saliman had killed earlier that day, a Bard who had betrayed the deep fealty of the Light—was creeping closer, but Hem could neither see nor hear any sign of movement. Very slowly, making no sound at all, Hem grasped the shortsword in his hand and loosened it in his sheath, positioning it so he could leap up and draw it in one movement.

If this person walked into the shield he and Saliman had made, its magery would make them visible, no matter what enchantment now hid them from his eyes. Hem's heart shook at the thought that this Bard must have somehow sensed past all their own concealments. Whoever it was knew where they were. Hem didn't know how that was possible: he had long experience now of making shields, shadowmazes, glimveils, all manner of Bardic hides, and he knew they were proof even against the vision of Hulls. So how had this Bard known where they were?

Nothing happened. Hem realized that he was sitting in a cold sweat, and began to wonder if his imagination, rattled by the events of the day, was playing tricks on him, showing him the shape of his fears in shadows and moonlight. But still he didn't relax: at the deepest levels of his awareness, he was sure something was there. The moon rose higher, and a faint silver limned the trees and the grass. And still nothing stirred in the empty night.